


Sound of Silence

by witchkings



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Constipated idiots, M/M, Nilfgaard, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Silence, Swear Words, mentioned Geralt/Yennefer - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:07:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22832269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchkings/pseuds/witchkings
Summary: "And then Geralt kicked his horse and off they were, leaving Jaskier in a cloud of dust and desire. His fingers itched for his lute. He would be damned if he couldn’t spin a tale to sway even the supposedly emotionless into heartfelt excitement. Jaskier had work to do. He had silences to fill. Geralt would be in for a treat."In which Geralt is a man of many silences and Jaskier just can't keep his mouth shut.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 14
Kudos: 199





	Sound of Silence

**Author's Note:**

> So, I wasn't going to write Witcher fanfiction, especially not during my exams, yet here we are... oh well. Keep in mind that this is solely based on events from the TV show. I've only read the first book and not yet played the game(s), which I intend to remedy soon, but this fic couldn't wait for me to gather extensive canon knowledge. Which is why I have made up a few things, but feel free to educate me on the actual facts.
> 
> Title based on the song by Dami Im (not the one you're thinking).
> 
> Let me know what you think! :)

0.

Jaskier had, in many ways surprised his mother over the years. For one thing, he should have never been conceived due to a curse thrown at her by an angry ex-lover who, inconvenient as these things often were, also happened to be a wayward sorcerer. Still, Jaskier had become his father’s parting gift and as his mother lost one, she gained a new life to call her own.

For another thing, everyone had expected little Jaskier, with his plump red cheeks and bright blue eyes, never to utter a single word in his life. His mother had been born mute and he was a quiet child. So when, at his third birthday, he tumbled out of his mother’s lap and waddled over to the musician she had hired, when he opened his chocolate-smeared mouth and began to sing along, the whole household had broken into cries of relief. Jaskier’s mother teared up, and signed her gratitude to the heavens. Her son was normal, not marred by his curse or her ailment, and as such he grew up until about eight or so, when he expressed a wish to become a professional singer. Jaskier knew not what that entailed exactly, he watched travelling bards pass through their little town and squeezed every last of their adventures out of them. For his ninth birthday, his mother gave him a lute, engraved with the words ‘for my little songbird’. She gave him a book filled with handwritten sheet music. She gave him an encouraging smile.

What followed was an armada of teachers and tutors that taught him the intricacies of music, both classical and modern. He learned to turn a violin’s howls from ear-scraping to melodic and addicting. Learned to play the fiddle, the flute, tame his lute and his voice. For seven years, Jaskier soaked everything in with the kind of hunger only the bored adolescent could conjure.

He applied himself to make music of all the spaces his mother never would be able to bring to life with her voice. She loved his music, oh how she adored it. But it wasn’t the kind of music Jaskier was born to, no. He could feel in his heart a beast, barely reined in.

By age sixteen he managed to charm his tutors into letting him off and into more frivolous activities. Suddenly, he was insufficient. His mother wasn’t happy with the way his fingers danced among the strings anymore. Her smile vanished.

Jaskier ran away from home then, full of glee and ignorance of all forms of education and etiquette. He threw a comfort away for the sweet taste of a roguish life on the road. He never looked back, would never become a noble, rich or even recognized. But he knew how to fill a silence and that was more than most people could say for themselves.

1.

Now, Geralt was a man of many silences. Some more subtle, some more obvious. All of them empty and in need of someone to fill them. If Jaskier had believed in these kinds of things, he would have called it Destiny.

Jaskier met Geralt in an inn at the edge of the world, coated in quiet. They went on a mission and fought a devil, treated with some elves. It was exhilarating. Their first day together over-sated Jaskier’s lust for adventure. He wrote his first own, real, untamed song in his head, tied to the back of someone he had just met. Geralt wasn’t silent then, as he tried to talk their way out of a sticky situation, but as soon as they were off that mountain, his words faded back to a sorry trickle. Jaskier had just the remedy for that, waiting at the tips of his fingers. The lyrics made him smug. His mother would so cringe at the crudeness, the folky chords, the euphemism. Ah, it was the best thing Jaskier had ever come up with.

And when he first sang that song, the Witcher said nothing – he overheard the complaints gracefully - which was a reaction Jaskier was used to. Only he didn’t clap either. Or acknowledge Jaskier at all, and that was just unacceptable.

“Did you even listen?” Jaskier asked once they were back in the little town and Geralt had collected his coin. His gut still ached from the punch, but he was feeling brazen. His heart pounded like it had never done before. “Did you like my song?”

“It was a fuck of a lot of horse shit. Only that horse shit doesn’t follow you around.”

“Wow,” Jaskier said, put his hands to his hips. He mimed an offended glare, but the reality was that his life had never been more exciting. This was what he had run away for: Witchers and monsters, fights and epics. Geralt remounted Roach, and she trudged off.

“Can I come with you?”

“No.”

“Pretty please?”

“Fuck off, Jaskier.”

And then Geralt kicked his horse and off they were, leaving Jaskier in a cloud of dust and desire. His fingers itched for his lute. He would be damned if he couldn’t spin a tale to sway even the supposedly emotionless into heartfelt excitement. Jaskier had work to do. He had silences to fill. Geralt would be in for a treat.

It wasn’t long before he got another chance. And another. No amount of rejection could stop him in his quest. If Geralt shooed him away, Jaskier would comply with a smile, tread his own paths and be back by Geralt’s side ere the season was spent. A new song on his lips, hundreds of words to keep Geralt company. So, things went.

2.

There were the serene silences, those that made for Jaskier’s fondest memories of their times together. The ones he felt were full enough by his presence alone and sometimes he talked through them because that was his way, and sometimes he said nothing at all. Either way, they were some of Jaskier’s favorites.

When Geralt let him ride on Roach’s back behind him, and all they needed to fill the little space between their bodies was the twitter of birds, and the cicadas in the bushes. Jaskier hooked his thumbs into Geralt’s trouser’s, and watched the landscape pass by, plains littered with daisies turning to evergreen forests turning to rustic town houses turning to cavernous mountainsides. He might hum a song under his breath or tell tale of a long-ago conquest. Always they rode towards danger, and always Jaskier felt safest by Geralt’s side.

When Jaskier woke in the middle of the night, as he had a habit of doing for no reason at all, and turned to see the Witcher fast asleep. The easy, deep breaths and the state of relaxation made him seem so innocent and vulnerable that Jaskier almost had an urge to put a protective arm around him. It broke him to think that, in the morning, the hard mask would go back on and Geralt would become a killer once more. He seemed not to mind the business, but Jaskier couldn’t imagine the burden piled upon those shoulders. It wasn’t outwardly visible, only when it fell away like this and Geralt looked celestial, like he might dissolve under touch. Staring into the treetops, the ceiling beams, the starry night, Jaskier listened to Geralt’s barely audible exhales and his own, comparably clumsy breaths. He never reached over, but he always slept better after.

When they chanced upon one another and Geralt silently let him come along. First with a scowl, then with rolled eyes and later, much later, even with a smile.

When the Witcher was covered in guts and Jaskier indulged in long hours of combing out his hair which felt like liquid silk between his fingers.

When life was good.

These occasions weren’t frequent, by any means, they were as rare and significant as dragons which only made Jaskier treasure them all the more. And little by little, the threads of attachment between them wove together.

3.

There were also the long nights at inns when no monsters had turned up, and no one needed saving, and so Jaskier would sing his little heart out in front of anyone who’d listened to earn them a meager dinner and a night indoors. Geralt would sit at that one table that always stayed empty as if by magic, would brood and stare into a dark corner. His hands flat on the table. Would not move at all as Jaskier gave the most dramatic performance of his life, drowned in applause, flirted his way through the crowds with two tankards of ale and back to the people’s Witcher (his Witcher).

“Cheer up,” he said on one such occasion, the giggles of the mayor’s daughter still loud in his ears. “The day’s revenues should last us three.” Jaskier took a long gulp, and sighed as the heat spread through his chest. It had been a week made of beds of moss and quick washes in streams. No monster far and wide, and no willingness on Geralt’s side to keep their spirits up. Jaskier would leave him soon, he had a job down South to do, but he had hoped for another great adventure to transform into legend along the way. Thus far, all he could sing about was the consistency of Roach’s dung and the many ways in which Geralt managed to be horrible and beautiful at the same time.

Geralt picked up the tankard and his lips finally unsealed, if only to drink.

“Oh yes, good job, Jaskier, it is very nice of you to share your coin with me,” Jaskier said in his best growl which wasn’t very growly at all. Geralt raised an eyebrow at him, even opened his mouth to speak, but in that moment the innkeeper sat down two plates of steaming stew in front of them.

“Thank you, love,” Jaskier said and she blushed, then scurried away. “Well, enjoy the meal. No need to thank me.” He knew was being a bitch, but he felt he had every right to. It had been one of his best performances yet, the new song about a werewolf hunt had debuted with glorious applause, and Geralt owed him at least some acknowledgement. More than the impenetrable, unwavering stare of those yellow eyes. Always directed at something over Jaskier’s shoulder, beyond him.

“What do you want me to do? Suck your cock in gratitude?” Geralt said, licking the thickly red sauce from his lips. His focus was on his food, but Jaskier couldn’t tear his gaze away. He flushed red, and hoped to whomever would listen, that Geralt would blame it on the spices.

It wasn’t a bad way to say thank you. Well. Jaskier wouldn’t say no. It was only that. Well. It was a bit blatant. And very obviously sarcasm. Quite foolish to say yes. Well.

“No thank you,” he mumbled against his spoon. “Got enough offers for that already.”

Geralt huffed and they ate without another word spoken between them. After, Jaskier slipped back among the crowd, and chattered, laughed, sang and drank until his throat felt raw. He couldn’t stand Geralt’s unresponsive behavior, not tonight. And still, the thought of Geralt‘s mouth on him lingered in his treacherous mind. When the mayor’s daughter dragged him to her home and rewarded him for his brave deeds alongside the White Wolf, it was nice. But it wasn’t who Jaskier wanted. And that realization changed everything.

4.

Or so he had thought. But whether Geralt had noticed or not, the next time they happened upon one another at a festival in Visima, Geralt was his usual unspoken self. Jaskier, clad in his newest arrangement of shining lavender, had come for the party. It was to be the greatest revel Temeria had seen in years: drinks, women, music, and a private invitation from the regent himself. Enough to lure Jaskier across half the continent. There was an ocean of stalls and stages by the lake, garlands of flowers that poured their sweet fragrance into the atmosphere. The buzzing excitement of hundreds of people travelled like a wildfire, and set Jaskier’s blood alight. He dove in, ready to spend the night in ecstasy.

After he had made his rounds of greetings and kisses, Jaskier sauntered over to the nearest wine stall, ready for his first goblet. Leaning against it in all his usual off-putting grumpiness was no other than Geralt himself. All in black and thoroughly out of place.

“Hello, stranger,” Jaskier said. His heart was full of reverence for this beautiful place and its beautiful people and seeing Geralt made it pound all the harder. He’d had many a day- and nightdream since understanding that he had fallen in love with the Witcher, and had enjoyed every last one of them. Jaskier understood they would never become his reality. It was fine.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said simply. “Thought I might find you where the alcohol is.” Jaskier didn’t know whether to be offended or proud of that, but the thought of Geralt wanting to find him at all, made him giddy and gooey inside. Maybe he did have some drink already and had forgotten all about it.

“Well, we both know why I am here. What about you though?” he sing-songed, overplaying the cheer. Anything to make that scowl disappear, oh how Jaskier longed to reach over and smooth it out. He considered it, then did just that and got no reaction at all. Curious, Jaskier thought and turned to the vendor. “Two goblets, please.” He paid for their wine and handed one over to Geralt who lead them away from the main street, to a quieter corner.

“Well?”

“Harpies, half a dozen of them,” Geralt said, casting about. “Thought you might like to tag along.” This was grand. This might even be one of his dreams, it all felt too perfect, too neat. Jaskier grinned. A night full of dancing and a new adventure on the other side? He was so here for it.

“Oh, yes, please,” he exclaimed and did a little jump which made Geralt roll his eyes. “I have been _dying_ for new content, you can’t believe how bored I get with singing the same songs over and over. My muse has been dead, Geralt, as dead as Toss A Coin To Your Witcher. Some say that song will live forever, but I tell you, if I have to sing it again, I might just puke.” That wasn’t entirely true in that Jaskier had written a few ballads as of late, none of which he felt comfortable to put on stage though. They were too personal.

“Gods,” Geralt groaned. “And if I ever hear that song again, I’ll kill you. Come on then.” And he made to leave, his two swords gleaming in the low sun.

“What, now? I will have you know this is only my first drink of the day. I mean, they say always to leave a party at its height, but I’m not sure it has even gotten started yet.” Geralt stared at him over his shoulder. Jaskier shrugged, it wasn’t his fault that Geralt had terrible timing. They could have some fun together, and then kill monsters. When he was sobered up. The wine did nothing for him, but Geralt here, Geralt asking him to join, Geralt making the effort to find Jaskier and let him come along, that made the world around them fade to a pleasant buzz. Jaskier bit back a giggle.

“Do you want to come or not?”

“I do, it’s just that I was invited to play…” he trailed off and gave Geralt his best puppy eyes. Pushed out his lower lip. Little whining noises. Geralt rolled his eyes again.

“Fine. But we leave after.”

Jaskier whooped, nearly spilling wine onto his new clothes. He dragged Geralt back to the crowds, the odor of roasted pork on the air enough to make the Witcher compliant. Melitele only knew how long it had been for him without a proper meal, and once again Jaskier’s soft heart made him pay for a portion for either of them. Geralt didn’t dance, but that was fine with Jaskier. They sat by the water and ate, and he told Geralt about all that had transpired since their last meeting, which was not much at all, but Geralt kept hmm-ing which to Jaskier was a sign that he listened.

And as the sun set over the lake and the spirits were intoxicated enough to be light and loose, eager for a great fantasy, Jaskier was ushered onto a stage. Whistles filled the air and shouts for tales about Geralt and his mighty deeds. They had not yet realized that the very same Witcher waited behind the stage for Jaskier to join him in another one of those much beloved adventures. Jaskier grinned through his songs. He had a feeling this one would be glorious.

5.

The silences that related to Yennefer were like furious flashes of lightning, littering the skies of Geralt‘s life. Jaskier waited and waited for the crashes of thunder to accompany them, but they never came.

This was a prime example:

They’d happened upon each other scouting out an abandoned castle where Geralt had been sent to kill a vampire and Yennefer had been there for a reason unknown to Jaskier as Geralt never bothered to disclose it. Who cared anyway?

„That woman,“ was all Geralt said upon storming back into the room they shared in a nearby inn for financial benefits. Jaskier had visited an old friend in town that day and lounged on the bed. He plucked a sad little melody on his lute and Geralt glowered at him.

„What happened?“ he asked with a yawn. Jaskier really didn’t want to know, especially if sex had been involved, but he felt impolite not to inquire. If he’d been barging into a friend’s house, fed up with Geralt and his stupid silences and his stupid love affair and his stupid face, Jasker would have wanted them to ask too. Though with a Witcher, that might not be a good indicator.

Geralt paced the room as he wriggled out of his pack, the harness holding his swords. In the fading light of day, Jaskier could make out a bite mark, stark against the Witcher‘s pale skin and wondered, not for the first time, if he‘d survive the night in the same room with a monster killer. He wasn‘t afraid, not really, just in awe. What a way to die though, with Geralt sucking on his neck. Jaskier had a notion he shouldn’t find the prospect as sexy as he did.

A bitter snarl had replaced the usually so impassive mask Geralt wore. Whatever she had done this time to get him so worked up, Jaskier wanted no part in it. To see Geralt suffer at her hands was more than enough for Jaskier‘s easily dismayed heart, but to watch him lust after her anyway was almost more than he could stand.

Geralt made three more rounds at the feet of their beds before he shook his head and let himself fall into his own. Jaskier struck a low, harmonious chord.

„I know just the song to calm you down,“ he chirped. Another chord, this one lower. It was Geralt‘s favorite song, even though he never admitted it. Jaskier could read it in the way the storm in his eyes turned to a soft summer rainfall.

„Fuck off,“ Geralt said. His eyes were closed, and as Jaskier eased into the song with a smile, Geralt‘s shoulders eased into the pillows.

 _I wonder if she‘s worth it_ , Jaskier thought, as he serenaded the night sky with all her hidden wonders, and: _if it were me you wanted, there‘d be no more waiting for the world to shatter._ But alas, more lightning awaited them.

6.

Jaskier never asked for anything in return. He poured out his words, his songs, his spirit for Geralt to soak up and whether the Witcher wanted it or not, Jaskier cared. Cared himself dry until there would be a small smile to melt his heart, a lingering shoulder squeeze that electrified him, a soft-mouthed ‚Jaskier‘ that almost, almost managed to break the silence around the Witcher.

Those moments rejuvenated Jaskier and he chased after them, like he used to chase girls and alcohol and fame. They were pleasant side effects of being the Herald of the White Wolf, but Jaskier wanted more. He wanted Geralt, sometimes so much that he disregarded his own well-being in favor of filling Geralt‘s silences. It came back to hit him in the fucking face. As hard as he‘d never been hit before.

7.

After the dragon hunt, all of Geralt’s silences accumulated to the unavoidable: his absence. There was no word from the Witcher neither in written form nor on the street. His deeds went untold with no one to serenade them, and Jaskier went about life back on the road with a constant unease tugging at his guts that made him go to bed sober and hungry most days. He couldn’t stomach food when he knew not whether Geralt was still out there. Still wandered moss-strewn paths and outran his destiny. Or whether he had found it after all.

Jaskier spent no time considering if the Witcher was sorry. There was no room for such sentiment in his heart and whatever they had had before had clearly been halfway fabricated by Jaskier’s wild fantasies and his tendencies to romanticize.

As he trudged from pub to pub, from town to town, his shirts getting more frayed, his lute strings breaking under his trembling fingers, people recognized him, begged him to tell tale of the White Wolf.

Jaskier wrote a hundred songs of heartbreak, and all of them he burned. He sang what they wanted to hear, but his soul wasn‘t in it, not really. Music evaded him and eventually, his coin ran out.

When Nilfgaard came for him, Jaskier did not resist. They pulled him out of some bed or other, down to the floor and trailed weapons at his chest. He hung his head, bleary from a lack of sleep, cheeks burning.

„He will get us the princess,“ a soldier whispered in their sharp language. Jaskier spoke it as well as any. One did not become a (semi-) famous bard without linguistic proficiency.

„Yees,“ another replied. „Yeees, the mutant will trade him.“

Jaskier gave a hollow laugh, as his chest was carved out by days of starvation.

„Geralt of Rivia doesn‘t give a shit about me,“ he said, cringing at his accent. Misuse had all but destroyed his vocal chords, but if he never sang again, it was probably for the better. „You‘d do better to take his fucking horse prisoner.“

„What is he talking about?“ a tall blond man said, stepping up to where Jaskier knelt on the floor. Jaskier remembered. He had stolen into this room to get some sleep that wasn‘t tainted by cold earth and the fear of being torn apart by some beast or nightmare. No money to pay for it. It was shameful, but it was his only option. If Jaskier had been courageous, he would have walked into a lake and let the drowners take him. Maybe he could provoke the Nlifgaardians enough that they put him out of his misery.

„Aww, you don‘t get it? I‘m sorry, I forgot your parents were all related. Let me spell it out for you: I. Am. Fucking. Worthless.“

That earned him a good kick to the gut and Jaskier doubled over, landed on his face with his hands bound behind his back. Cooper coated his tongue. To hell with it all.

“This one is trying to trick us,” another of them hissed, a woman with rakish dark hair and a ball of metal filling out her left eye socket. She toyed with her dagger, and let it jerk in Jaskier’s general direction. It was only the sheer amount of time he had spent around fights these past years that made him keep his calm. He was still not eager to be cut open, thank you very much.

“Yeeess, yeess. But it won’t work on us, noo. Pretty little bard will be the perfect bait.” Jaskier laughed again. The sound echoed through the bare room, and his cheek scraped against the worn wood with the tremble that went through his whole body.

“Melitele’s tits, you are daft. Maybe it’s true what they say...” Jaskier trailed off and waited for one of them to take the bait. Geralt would be out of his mind if he could see Jaskier now, bleeding, on the ground, and still running his mouth. He would cut each of their throat’s and then yell at Jaskier. Oh, what it was to get Geralt worked up. To have him be loud and expressive for once. But Geralt wasn’t here and Jaskier still needed to vent, to direct the accumulated fury of weeks of brooding at someone. Geralt would never be there again, not even in contempt. Nilfgaardians it was then.

“What do they say?”

“That your babies are so ugly that they are given to the goats to raise. It’s why the lot of you are so bloody stupid.”

A hand seized him by the throat and Jaskier gurgled and kicked out. Before he knew it, he was flying, flying, if this was death it was a sweet rush until THUD he slammed into the wall which shrieked. The fall to the ground knocked the last bit of breath out of him.

„You will be silent, you cock-sucking little bitch. One more word, and we‘ll put you and your Witcher on a stake and carry you as banners into battle,” the woman growled and dug her heel against his throat. He gargled. No sound came out.

The prospect of her threat didn‘t sound entirely unappealing. Jaskier curled in on himself and waited for destiny to stop showing him the finger.

This was his greatest fault after all. He just couldn‘t keep his mouth shut.

8.

They kept him blind-folded. With his eyes lost and his voice barely there, Jaskier could but sit, and listen, and wait. As they stowed him away in the back of some cart that smelled like horse shit and wine, between what felt like barrels, Jaskier wondered briefly if his mother had always felt this helpless. He ought to have given her a kiss more often.

It didn’t occur to Jaskier until much later, when he was untied, still blindfolded, and had been thrown into some cell or other that smelled like stale sweat and death, what the Nilfgaard soldiers had been saying.

_He will get us the princess._

“Shit,” Jaskier cursed under his breath. His heart felt torn in his chest. So, Geralt had finally found his child surprise and given into the bond that tied their fates together. In other words, he had traded Jaskier for something he spent more than a decade running from. Jaskier was worse than fucking destiny. “Shit.”

Geralt didn’t come.

Of course, he didn’t come.

The asshole probably had a whole continent worth’s of jobs more enticing than saving Jaskier’s ass.

The darkness became his friend when time evaded him. There was no telling left and right, day and night, dream or waking. Jaskier sat. Ate when fed, drank the shit water they gave him. He found his voice again, but kept it tucked away. They certainly didn’t deserve to hear it. He even wrote a new song. Alone in his captivity, Jaskier’s fingers itched for his lute for the first time since Geralt had sent him away. Melitele only knew how much time had passed since then.

Geralt didn‘t come.

He couldn’t.

He didn‘t want to.

He shouldn‘t.

„He won‘t.“

Jaskier was fine with that. It wasn’t like he needed Geralt to come and rescue him. If he had wanted to go, he could have. Torn away the band over his eyes and pick the lock and off to someplace with more wine, music and a pretty girl or two. Only Jaskier wasn‘t in the mood, and so he stayed. Not because he was waiting for Geralt. But because he wasn‘t.

Jaskier‘s newest masterpiece was about his mother. Of her struggles and woes which he felt he understood perfectly, now that he too had been muted and shunned by a past love (not as past as Jaskier would have like though). He wasn‘t sure if she was still alive, but once he got out of here, he would try and find her. Become her little songbird again.

Jaskier smiled to himself.

He would simply flee before Geralt ever got a chance to drop by. The look on his face would be priceless.

So, it went. Food, sleep, water, silent song, vengeful thought.

Geralt didn’t come.

Until he did.

9.

They shook Jaskier awake and grabbed him roughly by the shoulder, hauled him up to his feet. His legs were wobbly and thin, and as he took a moment to steady himself, a fist collided with the side of his face. Gasping, Jaskier struggled for purchase, but they already dragged him out of the cell. All he could do was to submit.

“What is happening?” he asked, to no avail. Perhaps he would finally get his death sentence. Geralt had taken too long, he didn’t care, so, Jaskier had to die. It was fine.

The air cleared as they walked up stairs. Every time Jaskier was about to face-plant forward, a rough hand grabbed him by the back of his weather-beaten and worn to threads doublet, and straightened him right up. As the stairs ceased, murmurs erupted all around them. The way they travelled indicated a spacious room, but not the outside. Whatever fucked up Nlifgaard fortress this was, Jaskier would be happy to see the back of it.

They stopped, and an icy breeze played about Jaskier’s body, the cold seeped into his bones.

“Finally,” the frantic voices around him were saying. Fragments of victory, heir, brat, Witcher, war, Witcher, other words Jaskier didn’t know. Witcher. He felt the day’s sorry meal rise in his throat. His hands were being held at his back.

Footsteps filled the space and the murmurs cut out. Replaced by a deep, jagged voice that Jaskier thought he’d never hear again.

“Jaskier, that you?”

Jaskier considered his answer. Could he just say no? Or not answer at all? He didn’t want Geralt’s pity. He would prefer death.

But when cold metal pressed against the tender skin of his throat, and the guard holding him growled “Speak!” Into his ear, Jaskier paddled back. He was too handsome to die after all. He could stand up to Geralt.

“Yes,” he sighed. “It is I, the voice of god.”

“Fuck.”

“The princess?” the guard asked. “Hand her over.”

“I’d rather not,” Geralt said and the whiz of metal suggested he’d drawn his sword. Oh, this was going to be so messy.

“Then your bard dies.”

“No. You die.”

The blade dug deeper, then fell away as the guard gasped and stumbled away from Jaskier. Mayhem broke out around him, but Jaskier felt separate from the cries, the clanging, the last breaths. He wanted no part in this, and with the cloth over his eyes still in place, he could pretend it was just hallucination.

It was an eternity before Geralt called his name, sheathing his sword. The world around them was eerily quiet, as Geralt crossed whatever space there was between them. The hairs on Jaskier‘s skin stood up. He wasn‘t ready for this. Then again, he thought himself ready to die so who knew what was going on anymore.

The blindfold tore away and Jasker was met with Geralt’s wide-eyed stare, full of horror. Rough, blood-stained fingers grabbed Jaskier’s chin and searched his face. Jaskier ducked away. Geralt reached after him.

“Don’t,” he hissed. “Don’t you dare touch me.”

“Are you hurt?” Geralt asked. Still searching, his hand hovering midway between them. He wore his leather travel garb which was more than roughened up from the fight. Looking anywhere but at Geralt - who made his heart spring back to life, angered, infatuated- Jaskier saw more bodies than he could count, strewn on black stone floor. Guts and brains and blades gleaming scarlet. There were no windows, only a few sorry torches to light the place. “Are you okay?”

Jaskier straightened. Shook out the pins and needles feeling in his hands. He walked away, toward the nearest exit.

“Jaskier.” Not a question. Jaskier, stop. Jaskier, let me patronize you. Jaskier, why are you still causing me trouble. Blah. He walked on. He made it halfway across the hall, his bare feet slapping against cold stone, before his knees gave in. Too long had he lingered in the dark.

The world spun, the torches like fireflies darted around Jaskier’s vision, as he sprawled onto the ground. From somewhere to his left, a low grunt. Then, warmth. Arms around his ribcage, under his legs. Jaskier was flying again. Falling. He felt elevated, and sick to the stomach. And then the scent of the wilderness filled his nostrils, sharp winds and musky earth and rain and grass and Geralt.

„Please,“ he murmured against Geralt’s neck, his voice lost in the storm that raged inside of him. Please, let me go. Please, never let me go. Leave. Stay. Say something, anything. Oh, fragile heart. Make it stop.

“Hush,” Geralt said, his voice muddy and distant.

No, Jaskier wanted to scream, but his flimsy hold on consciousness was even now slipping away. No more of your silences. The darkness took him.

10.

Jaskier woke to the hoarse cries of a rooster, they were unfamiliar, and so was the sparsely furnished room he was in. There was the bed he slept in, the linen worn rough and to a muddy beige by years and bodies, a nightstand and a fireplace opposite him. Jaskier flinched, his entire body aching. Geralt stood there, leaned against the fireplace, and if it hadn’t been for the steaming mug in his hands, he could have been a statue. His eyes were fixed on Jaskier, the bright yellow clouded over by heavy lids. For a moment, Jaskier felt thrown back in time. He had gone down in some fight and now Geralt tried to guess whether he would ever be fine again. News flash: Jaskier needed none of his fawning. Except that his limbs were on fire and his throat rough. Someone had washed him too. Nothing of Nilfgaard’s dungeons remained, but the memory of darkness and dream. Not even his clothes, no. Geralt had gone ahead and dressed Jaskier in one of his own, black shirts. It smelled like lemons and was about two sizes too big. Jaskier didn’t blush because this had never been a fantasy of his, no. Definitely not.

“For fuck’s sake, Geralt, how many times do I have to tell you not to stare at sleeping people,” Jaskier said.

Geralt’s cheek twitched, the corner of his mouth pulled upward, but Jaskier was in no mood for his amusement, stupid smug asshole of a Witcher and his constant meddling. Cast Jaskier away, then turn up out of nowhere like a goddamn-

“I’ve missed your voice,” Geralt said, and pushed off of the blank brick to walk over to the bed. His hair was loose around his shoulders, longer and impossibly whiter. His gaze, now fully alert, burned holes into the worn fabric of Jaskier’s sanity. And still, Jaskier’s eyes darted towards the sliver of tanned chest where Geralt’s shirt had fallen open. His medallion a steady weight.

Jaskier raised his chin. A thousand insults perched on his lips, protest, outrage, tear-stained confessions, and proclamations of love/loathing, all the pain this man had caused him, but no more. He would be damned ere he uttered another word. As he crossed his arms, Geralt sank down onto the bed and handed Jaskier the mug with raised eyebrows.

“Ungrateful brat,” he said, and when that didn’t get him anything, a faint exhale: “I get it, I wouldn’t want to talk to me either. But you will listen, Jask, won’t you?”

Jask? That was possibly the stupidest nickname Jaskier had ever been called, and there had been plenty of stupid ones. Fuck, but he glowed at the sound of it.

He put the cup of tea to his chapped lips to hide his mirth, and gestured for the Witcher to continue. It wasn’t like his feet would carry him out of here, even had he wanted to go. Despite all his resentment, something was painfully clear to Jaskier at Geralt’s soft-spoken words. He needed this so fucking bad that it hurt even more than the lingering ailments of his captivity. In fact, nothing had ever hurt like this.

“Ah shit,” Geralt cursed and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m no good at this stuff. Here’s the way I see it: I was an asshole and you didn’t deserve that, and I’m sorry.” Jaskier nodded. It was a start. “It wasn’t really you I was angry with, well it was, but only because I was angry with everyone. I thought Yen was being a bitch for not accepting what she felt for me. I was convinced it was real, and that the whole fiasco with the Djinn had nothing to do with it, and you were just in the way of my frustration. Collateral damage, so to speak. Which wasn’t fair at all, I know, don’t look at me like that. It’s just… I never let myself appreciate you because I was scared of what it meant to want you in my life and I told myself your feelings meant nothing to me. So, I broke your heart and didn’t give a shit about it. Which was a lie I needed to believe in order to sleep at night. I found Ciri, and Yen and I parted ways and that was that. Until she broke the spell and I snapped out of a state of grand delusion. The king of Nilfgaard contacted me not a week later and here we are. I am so sorry, Jaskier. You’re my best friend, and I can’t stand the thought of not having you around anymore.”

“It must have been confusing,” Jaskier said in earnest, his heart in a turmoil. He wondered what it would have been like. To have Geralt love him back, their relationship built upon constant doubt. The reality of it a variable never to be known unless they break the spell and risk separation. No, Jaskier would prefer things as they were. Love, unrequited. Only that Geralt’s words seemed to suggest something grand and electrifying. Jasker didn’t dare to hope. Destiny had fucked him over almost as often as Geralt had. He had to ask anyway:

“Did you really miss my voice?”

Geralt laughed and shook his head. It might have been a trick of the light, but the faintest tinge of pink appeared on his cheeks.

“I missed everything about you.”

“Oh… alright.”

“Will you forgive me, then?” Geralt asked, the fragility of his voice enough to make Jaskier want to bawl.

“Of course,” he said. Jaskier had a feeling he’d forgiven Geralt a long time ago. It wasn’t the angry rejection that haunted his steps after all. It was the feeling of insufficiency, of never comparing. When Yennefer had been there, Geralt had managed to fill his silences all by himself. Effortless. Why then should Jaskier struggle on? Even if Geralt wanted him back by his side, Jaskier would never manage to be enough. Only that that thought was an automatic response of his brain. Maybe he was more than enough.

11.

Geralt exhaled shakily, and seemed in that one breath to de-age ten years. A spark of mischief lit up his whole face. Jaskier had an uneasy feeling about it. His muscles betrayed him as he returned Geralt’s smile.

“Good. With that out of the way, would you please explain to me how you managed to land yourself in Nilfgaard’s dungeons?”

“Honestly? You want to have that conversation now?” Here they were again. Jaskier had expected this to come up before anything else, but oh well. Geralt was right, of course, Jaskier shouldn’t have simply gone along. But he’d been desperately depressed, he should be granted some slack.

“Yes. You ought to be more careful.”

“I didn’t exactly have a choice. They literally broke into the room I slept in, dragged me out of bed and took me prisoner,” Jaskier said.

„So you let them take you? Just like that? Why do you never resist, Jaskier? I was in a fucking state, worrying about you. It’s not… nice,” Geralt finished lamely. 

„Because I‘m not a fighter. I‘m just some bard who had the misfortune of falling in love with a Witcher. Granted, I do have a gorgeous face, so I understand why they‘re all after me. But bloody hell, Geralt, I‘m innocent and weak and fine with that.“ For a long second, there was silence between them. The words had slipped out of Jaskier’s mouth. He hadn’t meant to confess, not like this, but with Geralt’s apology still filling the room to the brim, he had had enough. Geralt, thank the heavens, let it pass, and grinned.

„You? Innocent? Jaskier your first instinct upon having a Djinn at your disposal was to ask it so kill someone for you,” he said, and took the now empty mug out of Jaskier’s hands. Took that hand into one of his own and brought his knuckles to his lips. Jaskier hastened to keep up the exchange ere his tongue got to tied up by whatever this was.

„Exactly my point. I would have offed him myself only, you know.“

„You‘re just some bard?“ Geralt murmured against Jaskier’s palm, kissed it. Fuck, he was going to die of a heart attack any moment.

...

„Jaskier?“

„Hm?”

“You’re really not.”

“No, of course not. But I am, ah, let me guess… the most obnoxious little shit you ever had the misfortune to meet, and the worst singer you know, and it’d be a gift to the world if I gave up my craft?” What had been the point of this conversation again? It was so loud and in the way of everything Jaskier wanted. His stomach convulsed in the best way possible.

“Yeah,” Geralt said with a grin, and leant forward. His free hand hovered near Jaskier’s cheek, and he waited for resistance, gave Jaskier the space to back away. Jaskier leant into the touch. The anger was still there, and he was sure he’d never let Geralt hear the end of it. But he also yearned. What was one evening in betrayal of his pain? They both exhaled softly. “But granted, you do have a gorgeous face.”

Jaskier blinked. Then grinned.

“I fucking hate you,“ he said. Geralt’s thumb ran along Jaskier’s lower lip. Their noses bumped together.

“You ought to,” Geralt whispered. He closed the last bit of distance and kissed Jaskier, careful, still giving him all the space he needed. Only Jaskier wanted no space between them, not anymore, not again. He wrapped his arms around the Witcher’s neck and pulled. Geralt was warm against him, smelling of firewood and soap. When Jaskier tugged on his hair, his lips parted easily. They both hummed, pleased and starved at the same time. But already, Jaskier’s breath failed him, and he gently pushed Geralt away.

“‘m sorry. I’m just... dizzy. Could you maybe just, uh, hold me?”

Geralt looked confused for all of two seconds before he nodded vigorously and settled next to Jaskier. A crease appeared between his brow, and then before he could react at all, Jaskier was settled between the Witcher’s legs, his backside pressed tightly against Geralt’s chest. Strong arms wrapped around him, and he all but deflated. It was so cozy and, damn, he had missed the constant electricity of being close the Geralt, the pounding of his heart in his ears. Jaskier closed his eyes.

“You’re too light,” Geralt said, grabbing Jaskier’s hand once more.

“You’re too heavy,” he countered.

“Hmm.”

This was nice. Real fucking nice. Jaskier was sure it wouldn’t last, but he would be damned if he let Geralt sent him away again. Just as he was about to doze off, something popped into Jaskier’s head. She had a habit of doing that by now.

“Geralt?”

“Mhm?”

“Where is the girl?”

“Safe.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. We’ll pick her up once you’re back on your feet.”

“We?”

“Hmm.”

“Alright,” Jaskier yawned and nestled his face against Geralt’s arm. The Witcher kissed his hair. Neither spoke, and it was the most comfortable quiet Jaskier had ever had the pleasure to partake in.


End file.
